


Seven Heavenly Virtues

by CuddlyHawk



Series: The Seven Deadly Virtues [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Character, Drugs, Healthy Relationships, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Misunderstandings, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Overworking, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape Recovery, Seven Deadly Sins, Seven Heavenly Virtues, Sexual Abuse, Sick Crowley (Good Omens), Temporary Character Death, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2021-01-02 01:23:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21153275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CuddlyHawk/pseuds/CuddlyHawk
Summary: Companion piece to Seven Deadly Sins, this story dives into the Seven Virtues that accompanied the husbands throughout their sins





	1. Humility

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to TheLurkerReader for suggesting a 7 Virtues story, Fanlan for (inadvertently) helping me come up with the idea for Chastity, and whtbout2ndbrkfst for showing so much interest in—and support toward—7 Sins, that I felt motivated enough to write this!
> 
> This one is shorter than 7 Sins but I hope you all enjoy regardless! It's much more introspective on how they feel / memories / thoughts / concerns during the sins—which eventually leads to the virtues—rather than the action or dialog (which is mostly glossed over or merely mentioned). For a more action-driven story, pop on over to 7 Sins.
> 
> tl;dr: This is not a standalone; you need to read [Seven Deadly Sins](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20397445/chapters/48381304) first

1349 AD

15:42  
Aziraphale's jaw was tight. He knew he had promised Crowley yesterday—technically, it was very early today—that he would be back to check on him after three families, but they were taking much longer than he had thought they would. He kept trying to juggle everything in his mind. Making sure each family member was able to say goodbye, making sure it wasn't taking too long, making sure the sick one didn't suffer needlessly. All he could think about was the demon dying in some stranger's house.

16:01  
Two down, one more family. Then he could go back to Crowley.

16:12  
Aziraphale was sure it didn't take this long when he was doing this with Crowley. It was like fate knew what he wanted, and was making sure to screw him over. Aziraphale scowled and tried his best to hide his anger from the grieving family. But if he sent their family member to Heaven sooner than they expected, then that was their fault for not knowing how fast the plague worked.

16:53  
With a deep breath of relief, Aziraphale reappeared in Crowley's room, and very nearly began sobbing at the sight. Crowley was sprawled out in the bed, making miserable whimpering noises deep in his throat, and his shoulders and arms were spasming up toward his face as if he were trying to move but the command got lost somewhere. Aziraphale stepped closer.

16:55  
"Sssssuh..." Crowley mumbled, delirious. "Sssuh hot..." Aziraphale's face twisted in concern and he reached out to relieve Crowley of the soggy—and indeed, hot—rag on his head. He dipped it fresh and wrung it out before folding it nicely on his forehead. The tension in his face eased ever so slightly and his eyes slitted open, searching for a while before he resigned himself to stare off blankly to the side.

16:59  
"It's alright my dear," Aziraphale soothed gently, letting his hand rest atop Crowley's. Crowley whined again and his foggy eyes slid closed. "I'm back, I'm right here. I won't leave you."

17:03  
The fit had been lasting for two minutes and thirteen seconds. Aziraphale had tears in his own eyes and he held tightly to Crowley's hand, trying to bring him back to reality by the touch.

17:14  
Still shaken by Crowley's seizure, Aziraphale refused to take his eyes off the demon's form. He sat at his bedside, watching him intently, trying his best to keep from sobbing. He continued to whisper soothing words to him.

17:16  
Crowley shifted and his face tightened as he attempted to open his eyes. Aziraphale shifted to stand in Crowley's line of vision, but it appeared he was too far gone to recognize his friend. Aziraphale spoke to him anyway. "You're doing great my dear, you'll feel better in no time." It was a hollow promise, he knew. But it felt good to say it anyway.

17:17  
It seemed like Crowley was meeting his eyes, but Aziraphale knew better. He was hallucinating, no doubt. The buboes on his neck had swelled to the size of eggs, and he had three large ones and two smaller ones down by his collarbone. Aziraphale bit his lip. Maybe if he just got rid of the tumors, he could make it a little easier for Crowley?

17:19  
Bad idea, bad idea. He took his eyes off him for one moment and this was what he got. Aziraphale pulled Crowley to the edge of the bed as his body weakly vomited blood in stringy globs onto the floor. The whimpers were much softer now, more like the keening of a dying animal, and it broke Aziraphale's heart.

17:23  
It seemed like Crowley was done. For now, anyway. He ever so carefully pulled his limp friend back into the sweaty sheets and with a snap of his fingers, the mess was gone from the floor and from Crowley's mouth. He was wheezing for breath and Aziraphale decided enough was enough.

17:28  
He tried, he really did. He wanted to send Crowley away, wanted to just finish it and put him out of his misery. But he had never killed anything before, and he very much did not want to start now. Especially not with Crowley. His fingers were still raised, preparing for the miracle that would stop Crowley's heart. But he couldn't do it. So instead he changed the miracle and snapped his fingers.

17:30  
Crowley was breathing easier now, at least. Aziraphale had miracled away the buboes littering his neck and cleared his throat of any blood that had caught in it. But he knew he was just delaying the inevitable. The coldness of Crowley's body attested to that.

17:33  
Logically, Aziraphale knew neither he nor Crowley needed to breathe, so it shouldn't mean anything when Crowley's body stopped dragging in air. And yet when he did stop breathing, Aziraphale couldn't stop the stream of tears down his face. Crowley's already-purple fingers began to turn a nasty black.

17:34  
He heard movement behind him and turned to see Death himself step into the room. Aziraphale's heart stuttered in his chest and he felt a surge of protectiveness and fear. He bent lower to Crowley's body and growled darkly at Death, opening stark white wings to scare the threat away.

17:34  
Death laughed. It sounded like the rattle someone makes before they die. Soft, whispery. Terrifying. "You cannot stop me, I am inevitable." Aziraphale growled louder, wings stretching wider.

17:34  
"You'll have to go through me to get to him."

17:35  
"The body you cradle has already given up," Death explained in his whispery, patient voice, all traces of mirth gone.

17:35  
Aziraphale simply held on tighter. "Then you need to take me too. I'm not leaving him. Never again."

17:37  
The silence stretched on. Crowley grew paler by the minute. Aziraphale's wings drooped.

17:40  
"It is time, Principality. Let him go."

17:40  
"No!"

17:40  
"You must."

17:40  
"I will not stand by and let you take him away. Surely you can fix this."

17:40  
Death didn't move. His voice floated around them. "I cannot give him his will to live back. He must regain that on his own. As I said, he has already given up."

17:42  
Aziraphale couldn't stop sobbing, clutching desperately to Crowley's still chest.

17:45  
"Please... I beg of you," Aziraphale whispered eventually, tearstreaks marring his ruddy face. He wasn't too proud to beg, especially not when it came to Crowley's life. "Please, I'll do anything." He held Crowley tighter. "Anything."

17:45  
"Anything?" Death sounded interested.

17:45  
Aziraphale's head snapped up. "Yes! Anything at all! Please, please... Take me instead, whatever you want. Please..."

17:46  
"Then let him go."

17:46  
"No...anything but that. Please, you can't..."

17:47  
"He will return, Principality. It is time, but he will return." Death raised his scythe and Aziraphale could suddenly feel every stuttering heartbeat under his hand. Every shiver that trembled through Crowley's body. Every twitch and flicker of life, hanging on by a thread. He could feel the choking, blinding pain Crowley was in, could feel his suffering even though Crowley was barely, if even, conscious.

17:48  
Aziraphale bowed his head and sobbed wretchedly into Crowley's chest. Death slowly lowered his weapon and Aziraphale could feel the strings tethering Crowley to his body being severed. He choked on his breath, hugging him tighter even as he felt his essence slipping away. "Say goodbye," Death reminded him gently.

17:49  
Aziraphale sniffled and raised a hand to cup Crowley's cheek, cocooning his wings around both of them to shield them from the world. "You better come back to me soon, fiend," he said without a hint of malice. And even though he had a hundred more things he wanted to say, he weakly settled on, "I'm going to miss you."

17:51  
Time of death.


	2. Patience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley holds onto one thought as he waits for his paperwork to be done: he wants to get back to Aziraphale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: A bit of torture, but not too graphic

???? AD

Crowley crumpled onto a rough, spongy ground of fiery-hot magma. He had promised long ago to never make a sound, but it was difficult at times. He bowed his head and clenched his hands so hard, his fingernails bit into his palm.

Someone's foot connected into Crowley's stomach and he gasped, sending a withering glare up at them. As always, it was some faceless demon, having earned the right to enforce some punishment onto the residents of Hell. Probably got some kind of commendation and decided to cash in their reward.

It was tiring, despite not really doing anything. Crowley's body shook with the effort of holding himself back. He wanted to fight, wanted to lash out and defend himself. But he wanted to get back to Earth. And to do that, he couldn't piss off anyone. Just take his punishment for getting himself discorporated and be done with it as soon as possible.

Aziraphale had mentioned in passing that getting discorporated involved a lot of paperwork. And while that was true, Heaven indeed gave their discorporated angels plenty of work to dissuade them from doing it again, in Hell, they had demons who were stationed in the 'paperwork' office, others in 'filing,' and others still in 'shredding'. So while Crowley didn't have to do his own paperwork, that gave Hell more time to remind him in _other_ ways just how much they disapproved of discorporation.

These reminders usually involved torture that would otherwise be impossible with a human body. As soon as Crowley arrived in Hell, gasping for breath and clutching at his neck (only to find a distinct lack of buboes), he was immediately shackled and hauled up and over an endless yellow ocean, as one of the hundreds of demons suspended by their wrists with their arms stretched to their sides over the boiling sea of sulfur.

Various other demons, new and old, screamed in pain beneath him as they drowned in the acid. The noise was nauseating and Crowley wished he could cover his ears, but of course he never got a reprieve.

The ones hanging above groaned a haunting chorus that was only accentuated by the shrieks of pain and fear below.

For years that lasted.

Years of nothing but the comfort of knowing he wasn't the only one suffering.

Years of solitude and yet surrounded by agony.

Only a little while ago did they finally unchain him, and his arms were so numb and weak, he could do nothing but stumble along as Beelzebub themself snapped a metal collar to Crowley's neck and dragged him to his new room and chained him to the wall.

The silence had been a pleasant relief, but the suddenness of it caused Crowley's ears to begin to ring the instant Beelzebub closed the door with a final _clang_, and he had started hearing things in the deafening silence. Footsteps, faint screaming, sometimes he would hear people talking, _whispering_, just outside his door.

But there was never anyone there.

Sometimes he wished to be free. Sometimes he wanted to just break himself out and run away.

Sometimes he wondered why he was even still there. It must have been years, no? Years and years? Or maybe it was only a couple months.

He laid motionless on the hot stone, the warmth uncomfortable but not unbearable. He sat up and tried slamming his hands against the wall, tried rattling his chain, trying to get someone's attention.

Silence greeted him.

He sunk against the wall, letting his mind wander. He wondered how Aziraphale was doing. He wondered if the plague that had taken his life was over yet.

He wondered if Aziraphale missed him.

Crowley curled his knees to his chest and hugged them, wishing he was back on Earth. He could admit it quietly: he missed Aziraphale. He found himself wishing the angel was here to keep him company, but he quickly pushed that away. He would never wish Aziraphale to come down to Hell.

No, Crowley's only hope of seeing Aziraphale again was when he was allowed to go back to Earth. And Crowley had no idea when that would be.

He took a deep breath and waited, letting his eyes drift closed for the first time in ages.

It was then that he was attacked. The faceless demon jeered at him, fist raised to strike him again, and Crowley had to clench his jaw tightly to keep from spitting venom into their face. This was his punishment for resting, apparently. Being attacked mercilessly while the collar around his neck kept him within a meter of the wall.

When one left, another took their place. And then another. And another.

His soul didn't need sleep, but Crowley wished he could fall unconscious. It would make everything so much easier.

As it were, Crowley simply stayed still, gaze focused on a spot near the door as the demons entered and had their way with him before leaving with a bit more of a bounce in their step.

Crowley's breathing had grown ragged. He couldn't feel his chest, couldn't feel his arms, his legs were completely numb, and his back was stiff with pain, despite not really having bones. He groaned softly and was surprised to see a black substance dribble from his mouth. Blood directly from his soul. He had almost forgotten what that looked like.

Eventually, someone Crowley recognized stepped into the cell.

Hastur.

Crowley snarled, trying his best to appear intimidating in front of the duke. But Hastur just laughed haltingly, like he wasn't sure how to express his joy.

Hastur approached and knelt in front of him. "Aw, you look like a kicked dog," Hastur said mockingly. "I should know, I just came from the hellhound enclosures." Hastur reached out and used the end of a pronged staff to poke at Crowley's body. Crowley jerked away from it, but Hastur remained impassive. "You look worn," he noted, a sliver of glee creeping into his tone. "But not broken yet."

Crowley jerked against the chains. "I was only discorporated, you toad. I'm not supposed to be broken, I'm waiting for my blessed paperwork to be done." Hastur clicked his tongue disapprovingly.

"That's no way to talk to me," he chided as if he were talking to a child. It made Crowley's anger flare up, but he reigned it in and instead, he sent a glare up at the duke. "After all, I'm the one who decides when you're ready to go back to your post."

Mouth dropping open, anger forgotten, Crowley stammered for words for a few seconds before he settled on, "What?"

Hastur smiled, his dark eyes glinting in glee. "That's right. I get to decide when you get to go back to Earth." Crowley swallowed the insults and blessings he wished to cast upon Hastur, and settled for a tired glare. Hastur paced around him, hungrily taking him in. "I am to ensure you know how inconvenienced we are that you would discorporate your body, and to discourage you from doing it again."

Crowley ground his teeth together. "I didn't do it on purpose, you think I _want_ to be here with you?"

With an uninterested shrug, Hastur continued pacing. "You'll learn to hold your tongue, _Crowley_," he spat his name like it was poisoned, "if you wish to see the sun again. I know how you adore it."

He was about to argue again, but quickly caught himself. It wasn't the _sun_ that he adored, so much as it was a particular being who held sunshine in his smile, and whose halo glowed like a star. "Right, the sun," he said slowly, awe filling him at the revelation. "I _do_ adore the sun."

Hastur guffawed and it sent chills down Crowley's spine. "Oh you should see your face. Been up there too long, that's for sure. Missing the sun," he choked on a wet laugh and clumsily wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "Imagine that, a demon who likes the sun."

_Oh, if only you knew,_ Crowley thought, keeping his face carefully blank. If he was reacting this strongly to believing Crowley liked the sun, he could only imagine how much worse it would be if Hell knew he liked an angel.

"Well if you want to see your precious sun again, you will do as I say," Hastur said, and Crowley could only nod. "_Everything_ I say," Hastur pressed. Crowley nodded again. Anything, he told himself. He would do anything to get back to the surface. To see Azir– er, _the sun_, again. "Excellent," Hastur slid his hands together greedily.

Crowley took a deep breath. _Patience_, he told himself. _Patience_.

* * *

1361 AD

By the time he was released from Hell, Crowley was quiet and tame. Even Crowley himself wasn't sure if it was an act or his new reality. It had started as an act, but somewhere along the line, the distinction blurred. His muscles occasionally jumped, his limbs seizing in small tremors, not quite used to housing a celestial being yet. His body was exactly like his old one, thankfully. He knew it would take a bit of getting used to, after spending over a decade without a body, but it would be easier in a body he felt familiar in.

Crowley slowly trudged toward a tavern he had never been to. He reached out his essence, seeking Aziraphale's energy. And he could feel it, faintly, coming from this tavern. Part of him wondered why Aziraphale wasn't reaching back, but he pushed that aside. It had been twelve years, after all. It felt both like an eternity had passed, and yet it was almost like the blink of an eye ago when he was helping Aziraphale with the Black Plague.

He sucked in a deep breath when he reached the front of the tavern, feeling his lungs catch for a moment, and let out the breath in a shaky exhale. Patience.

He stepped inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said, these chapters will be shorter. I'm not a huge fan of them, but this has been in my drafts for too long, so I figured... what the hell, might as well post it
> 
> Leave some kudos if you enjoyed!


	3. Diligence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale takes on more work than he should

1803 AD

Aziraphale hadn't heard from Crowley in nearly five years, and it was starting to worry him. He knew where he lived, but he had never gone to visit before. So it felt very strange to show up announced. But then again, it had been five years without a word. Ever since they started their Arrangement back in 1020 AD, they always kept in contact at least once a year, even if it was just via a letter. If nothing else, they agreed that it was safer to keep in contact so they would be aware of the reports that were being sent to their head offices, rather than being caught off-guard and risk getting found out.

So five years was unheard of. Maybe Crowley was in trouble?

It was that thought that sent Aziraphale to Crowley's house. He hesitated on the front lawn, looking around at the wilting garden around him. Crowley hadn't seen them in a while, it would seem; he would never let them get this bad if he could help it. So Aziraphale pushed the front door open and called out, trying to hide the worry in his voice, "Crowley?"

Silence greeted him, and that worried him more. He quickly paced through the small cottage, through the kitchen and living area, worry mounting, but when he made it to the bedroom, he stopped short. All his worry and fear melted away into fondness.

Because there, lying curled on his side, was Crowley. Aziraphale's fondness at seeing Crowley in such a vulnerable state was soon replaced with concern once more. Aziraphale himself had never slept before; angels and demons didn't need to. He wondered if Crowley had ever slept.

Suddenly it occurred to him that Crowley may not be asleep, because he hadn't heard from Crowley in years, and he knew that humans only slept for a couple hours, not years. Aziraphale stepped closer, wringing his hands together. "Crowley?" He asked again. Still no reply. Not even a twitch. Maybe Crowley was in trouble, after all.

He firmly shook Crowley's shoulder, like he had seen humans rouse one another. But Crowley stayed limp, his face serene. Aziraphale bent over the still form and placed his hand on his chest, searching for the soul inside.

Sure enough, it was there, alive as ever, simmering just below the surface. Aziraphale could feel Crowley's soul dancing in a fluid, carefree manner all around him. He tried reaching out to him, but Crowley didn't seem to notice him, lost in whatever he was dreaming about.

Aziraphale pulled back and opened his eyes to see Crowley still simply lying on the bed, unmoving besides the slow rise and fall of his chest.

Fondness filled Aziraphale again, and he couldn't bear to wake Crowley, not after seeing how _happy_ he was, fast asleep like a human.

And so Aziraphale stepped away. He would let Crowley sleep. He wasn't sure what made the demon decide he needed the rest, but Aziraphale wasn't going to pester him.

After another year, he began to notice problems.

Most noteworthy, the amount of praise he was getting from upstairs. How many good deeds that had been completely un-thwarted by any demonic entities. After his third letter in the same week, Aziraphale suddenly had a revelation. If he was getting praise, then was Crowley getting reprimanded?

He had made it a habit to go check on Crowley's nap every couple months, and so far he hadn't seen anything out of the ordinary. But he began to worry that downstairs would eventually summon Crowley and rouse him from his nap. And Aziraphale couldn't let them do that. So he took it upon himself that he would begin to thwart his own miracles.

It felt strange, submitting reports for both himself and for Crowley, and Aziraphale quickly felt the effect of pushing himself twice as hard as he usually did.

As time went on, Aziraphale became more accustomed to his hardworking lifestyle. He couldn't allow anyone to find out, because both he and Crowley would get in trouble, and he couldn't allow that. So he worked hard to make sure no one would find out.

It was lying, Aziraphale knew, but he rationalized it as holding back the entire truth for the good of humanity.

No one seemed to really notice anyway, and Aziraphale wasn't sure if he was glad, or if he was hurt.

Heaven checked in rarely, Hell even less so. He intercepted Crowley's mail, and got plenty of commendations for things he would rather not have commendations for, and he started to understand why Crowley was so set on staying home rather than going out and doing work; he would get credit for every nasty thing the humans invented.

Whereas Aziraphale would never get commendations anymore; only reprimands when he performed too many frivolous miracles. While neither were particularly pleasant to receive, Aziraphale took them all graciously. He willingly went to both Soho and Mayfair, his and Crowley's respective places of residence. Aziraphale planned on opening a bookshop soon, while Crowley was in a small cottage (but was waiting for a larger apartment complex to be finished being built).

It was double the work in all aspects. Double the miracles _and_ double the temptations, in twice as many places. After 25 years, Aziraphale's stamina was starting to wane. He never needed to sleep, but he was starting to seriously consider it. He was reaching into his soul to perform miracle after miracle, and it was starting to ache deep inside, making miracles harder as time went on. As though it were a physical wound. A blister, of sorts. Trying to protect him by blocking him from the place of hurt.

And yet he kept demanding more and more power.

Around the 60-year mark, he suddenly collapsed.

Angels (and demons, technically. Supernatural beings in general) shouldn't lose consciousness. Crowley must have trained himself to like sleeping, but it wasn't something Aziraphale wanted to try. There was always too much to do in a day, and if he just never slept, then he could double his productivity. Which was coming in handy now that he had nearly eight times the work to do.

Up until now, that is.

Relentlessly pulling on his power had finally gotten to him, and his body simply shut down.

When he woke up, he was incredibly disoriented and had to take a moment to recall everything he could. The last miracle he had performed, the last temptation. What exactly was he doing before now? He blinked and looked around himself. He was in a large room with many other people, each lying on their own bed. Aziraphale blinked down at himself and found that he, too, was lying in bed.

His corporation was shaky and weak, as if his angelic energy was still asleep. He heard someone coughing nearby and turned to look. It was an older man, gasping for breath. Aziraphale blinked, trying to send a healing thought his way, but the man continued to cough raggedly.

Aziraphale frowned, and a physician approached. "Are you awake, sir?" He asked, and Aziraphale could do nothing but nod dumbly. "You gave us all quite a fright. Being comatose for over a year. We thought you had passed on! But you continued breathing, so we just kept you here. Looks like we did alright," he sniffed self-importantly, and Aziraphale scowled, trying to sit up more.

"A year?" He asked incredulously. "No, you must be mistaken."

"Quite. We are in the year eighteen sixty-four, my good sir."

Aziraphale's jaw dropped. He raised a hand to his head. "What happened to me?"

"A young lady brought you in. Said you were felled in the road. We were hoping you could shed some light on the situation for us." By now, a few other nurses had come to see Aziraphale.

He quickly stood up, ignoring the way the ground swayed under his feet, and staggered to the door, mumbling apologies. "Yes, well, thank you all very much. Great work, you have all done wonderfully. I must be off now, ta!"

Aziraphale slipped out the door before anyone could stop him. A year? What had happened since then? Was Crowley alright? Had Heaven and Hell figured out what he was doing? Aziraphale hurried back to Crowley's cottage, bursting in with a weak miracle that nearly drove him to his knees, and rushing to his bedside. And there, Crowley slept soundly. Undisturbed and untouched.

Aziraphale breathed out a deep sigh of relief and sank to his knees, resting his forehead on the edge of the bed. "Oh thank Heaven," he whispered. Everything was still okay.

Other than his miracles. They were still weak and reluctant to obey Aziraphale. _Perhaps I need something other than miracles to spend my time doing,_ he thought. _Perhaps a hobby will suit me. Bring back my powers more quickly._

He realized that if he wanted to continue this type of work, he had to adjust. Instead of grand miracles which he would balance out with a demonic miracle or temptation of an equally grand caliber, he had to do things as simple as making someone stumble as they walked, or allowing someone to find money on the floor. And he had to stop doing miracles as frequently.

He needed a hobby.

Later that same day, he happened to find a new, discreet Gentleman's Club who were looking for more members, and Aziraphale signed up with gusto. Yes, this would help him pass the time until Crowley awoke. This would be good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any mistakes are my own, please let me know if you find any typos!
> 
> Otherwise, leave kudos if you enjoyed!


	4. Chastity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley learns what happened to his angel while he was sleeping, and it brings back bad memories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: This is where the rape/non-con warning comes into play. It's not incredibly graphic, but Crowley has some flashbacks that leads to a small panic attack that may be upsetting. Overall though, this chapter is about Crowley respecting Aziraphale's boundaries

1900 AD

Crowley had almost immediately noticed something was wrong with his angel. The way he held himself as they walked through the park spoke volumes to how much he had gone through in the past hundred years, and Crowley wondered just what exactly he had missed. It was a scummy thing to do, but Crowley knew Aziraphale tended to ramble when he was drunk. Maybe he could get some answers if they had some alcohol. He brought it up, casually (of course), and Aziraphale agreed to drinks (of course).

And so here they were, drinking and talking. Aziraphale had plenty to tell him about, from automobiles to how the fashion had changed. Crowley listened politely, relishing the fact that he got to be near Aziraphale again. He didn't realize how much he had missed him, but he would never admit that aloud to anyone. But with the alcohol making him pleasantly warm, he could quietly admit it just to himself.

The bottles of wine ran dry and Crowley stumbled to refill them with a harder liquor. He glanced up at Aziraphale after he sat heavily back down and snickered to himself when he saw how pink Aziraphale's nose had become.

But before his eyes, as Aziraphale brought the glass to his lips, Crowley watched him stiffen and _launch_ the glass away from himself, eyes as wide as saucers.

Crowley miracled the mess away and was by Aziraphale's side in the same breath. "Aziraphale, what's wrong?" He asked worriedly, searching him quickly for any kind of injury that would have warranted such a violent reaction. Not coming across any injuries just worried Crowley more, and he pressed, "Angel?"

Aziraphale didn't seem to hear him, as his eyes had glazed over and his breathing was getting more and more ragged by the second. Crowley's mouth went dry and he had a sudden suspicion as to why Aziraphale was so upset. Guilt filled him and he knelt down, trying to meet Aziraphale's darting eyes. "Hey, c'mon Angel. It's alright, everything's okay," he soothed, ignoring the way his voice strained around the tightness in his chest as he continued, "I'm here." The unspoken 'and I'm sorry I was gone for so long' hung unsaid. That had to be the reason, right? Crowley's absence?

Aziraphale didn't respond, and Crowley worried at his lip. Maybe he was wrong? "Come on now, what's the matter?" Because at this point, even Aziraphale growing angry at him was better than this silence.

The angel was never so quiet or pale, and it was haunting.

Crowley tentatively reached out and placed his hand on Aziraphale's knee and jerked back when Aziraphale finally responded by yanking himself away and hugging himself tighter and squeezing his eyes shut while murmuring a chant of apologies.

At a loss, Crowley stood and began to pace. He focused all the alcohol from his system and continued to pace, face twisted in concern. This wasn't what he had been expecting at all, and he had no idea what to do.

Finally he settled on comforting Aziraphale as the best course of action.

A cup of tea and a warm blanket later, Aziraphale reluctantly admitted that while Crowley had been sleeping, he'd had sexual intercourse with some human man, though it didn't seem like Aziraphale had wanted it. Fire immediately surged through him and turned his vision red with fury, and he had to very consciously keep his breathing in mind. After he was sure he could speak without growling, he asked, "Did you tell him you wanted to stop?"

And when Aziraphale said that the man didn't listen when he did, Crowley just about lost his mind.

Memories that Crowley had tried so hard to push away came floating right back to the surface like a corpse on a lake, horrifying and disgusting and impossible to ignore. Crowley tried stamping them down just long enough to reassure Aziraphale that it wasn't his fault, and somehow managed to tuck him into bed.

"Stay?"

His heart broke a little at the tiny request, and how could Crowley refuse? So of course he crawled into the bed next to the angel, hands clasped firmly in his lap, and listened as Aziraphale's breathing evened out into sleep. Crowley sat stiffly, eyes locked on the far wall, and the memories came to hit him full-force.

Rape wasn't a regular occurrence in Hell. They preferred brimstone fires and turning people inside out and making them lay dismembered in lava for a couple hundred years. No, rape was a human invention. One that Crowley had no influence in, and he refused to take credit for it because of how sick it made him feel to think of a human defiling another in such a humiliating way.

When the other demons found out that Crowley wanted nothing to do with the sin, they decided to remind him who he was: a demon. And demons sin.

They made that painfully clear.

Crowley shivered, bringing his knees to his chest and hugging them. If Aziraphale woke up soon, Crowley would flip his emotions switch and pretend everything was fine. But for now he allowed himself to be weak.

The tears were a surprise, though. He didn't even cry back then.

Back then, it was just pain. Nothing new. Not really. He'd been tied up before, he'd been hit and gagged. The burning, although in a new location, was not entirely a new sensation. He had lumped it all into 'Hellish Torture' in his mind. But as he sat there next to Aziraphale, saw the fear that had run through his angel, saw how deeply it had scared and hurt him, Crowley understood his own emotions. How it felt to be violated in such an intimate way.

Even though he hated to admit it, being Fallen had almost prepared him for being raped. It had taught him over the eons that consent was a privilege. Everyone in Hell was allowed to say 'no'. They were allowed to question and defy. It was what made them Fall, after all. They knew they could at least _try_ to say no, and there was a real possibility that someone would listen. Or at least they could fight back without repercussions. And fight back, he did—when he could.

But for Aziraphale...

Heaven expected all their angels to obey, no questions asked. It had been so deeply ingrained into Aziraphale to simply accept whatever the consequences for his actions were.

Crowley felt his throat closing up again and a new wave of tears spilled over his cheeks as he watched Aziraphale sleep peacefully. How long did it take for Aziraphale to say 'no' to the human? He had told Crowley 'no' plenty of times, but that was because Crowley had made it clear that the angel was allowed to have choices, to have an opinion. As it were, it took Aziraphale over four thousand years to even weakly suggest that he maybe, _somewhat_ didn't agree with the demon. Another five hundred to actually say the word 'no'. And while it was annoying at times, Crowley never pushed Aziraphale too hard and always respected his right to decline. With a spike of fear, Crowley wondered...if he had never met Aziraphale that day long ago in Eden, would the angel _never_ have stood up for himself?

Overwhelmed with the urge to stroke a finger down Aziraphale's cheek, Crowley reached out only to pull back sharply before making contact. Back then, back when rape was first invented—back when Crowley was one of the first victims, he thought bitterly—what did he want? The answer came to him quickly. He wanted to be left alone. He wanted everyone to leave. He wanted a shower, wanted new clothes. And he definitely didn't want anyone getting anywhere near him, let alone touching him.

Centuries ago, in a dirty part of his mind, Crowley had thought about what it might be like to be with Aziraphale in a more intimate way. He had very nearly almost kissed him multiple times now. But after seeing how much pain Aziraphale was in now and remembering his own pain, all those thoughts disappeared into nothing but comfort and love. He no longer wanted to be physically intimate with Aziraphale; just sitting by his side, guarding him while he slept, was more than enough.

Crowley couldn't understand how Aziraphale let him stay so close while he was so vulnerably asleep, but then he had to remind himself that the rape was over ten years ago. _And you were sleeping without a care in the world while he needed you,_ his brain hissed angrily.

He acknowledged the jab. Yes, he had been asleep. Yes, he regretted not being there when Aziraphale could have used a friendly bit of company. But what's done is done. And all he could do was be there for Aziraphale now.

Crowley decided that night that he would always be there for Aziraphale moving forward, he would protect and defend him to the ends of the Earth. He would be the best goddamned friend Aziraphale ever had.

If that were to change later on, he would leave that up to the angel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Fanlan for [this thread](https://archiveofourown.org/comments/247570952) that helped inspire this chapter
> 
> Make sure to leave kudos if you enjoyed!


	5. Generosity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley learns what's important to Aziraphale, and makes sure not to forget.

1933 AD

Crowley found out just how much books meant to Aziraphale. It tore at his heart to feel the scream of utter _agony_ in his soul as Crowley was trying to mist his plants. He leaped up and raced to his car, slamming the gas before the door was completely closed, before he even really knew what he was doing.

When he arrived, feeling more and more ill the closer he got to the huge pillar of black smoke, Crowley thought he had lost the angel. He had gone dangerously quiet over the ethereal realm, and Crowley could smell the Hell in this fire. Someone else's demonic work.

He rushed toward the pile of books and quickly found a soot-covered Aziraphale coughing up black tar and shaking like a leaf as he tried to crawl toward the books, one charred arm outstretched.

Crowley didn't think. He rushed forward, cursing anyone who dared to look at him, and seized Aziraphale under the arms, bodily pulling him backward and away from the fire and smoke.

Aziraphale thrashed, wheezing wetly and making sibilant sounds as he reached out toward the fire even as Crowley was pulling him back. Crowley snapped at him and the angel quite suddenly went limp in his arms.

Crowley took a deep breath, blinking himself out of the memory. That was a week ago, and Aziraphale was still yet to wake up. He had commanded the hellfire to leave Aziraphale, to go back to whence it came. And it did, reluctantly. Crowley had spent the better part of the past week trying to heal any damage, making it as easy as he could for Aziraphale to breathe as he rested on the sofa in his bookshop.

The fireplace was not lit, and yet the room was warm. Aziraphale had threatened a fever a day or so after the hellfire was gone from his body, but Crowley was able to keep it away with a warm room and cool cloths on his forehead. He brought his chair closer to the sofa, gently petting Aziraphale's hair from his face. He felt, not for the first time, the all-consuming fear that he could very well have lost Aziraphale today.

He didn't know what he'd do without his angel. Aziraphale would have discorporated himself, all over some stupid books.

That was just it though; the books weren't stupid to Aziraphale. Crowley had to keep that in mind.

* * *

1941 AD

"And if, in thirty seconds, a bomb does land here, it will take a _real_ miracle for my friend and I," Crowley gave a pointed look to Aziraphale, "to survive it." Sure enough, despite Crowley's many (generous) warnings, the Nazis refused to run away. So he redirected a large missile to land directly on top of them, trusting the angel to keep him safe. And if all the other bombs from that particular plane were duds, Crowley would not admit his involvement.

Crowley didn't even flinch as the church exploded around him.

The ceiling crumbled around them and the walls blew outward, and a sudden thought had Crowley reacting immediately. The books. Aziraphale was here over some books. About to be discorporated over books, _again_. Crowley quickly sought them out. They were in a leather bag that was very close to being disintegrated. And he willed them to survive the explosion.

Crowley held onto that protection even as the church rocked around them. He felt the ground's consecration crumble as the church fell, and yet he was untouched. The burn in his feet faded to a lingering sunburn pain instead of an active searing. Aziraphale was indeed protecting him, even though they had their fight years ago.

Eventually, the ground stopped rumbling. And he somehow appeared atop the rubble as the dust cleared.

Any minute now, Aziraphale would remember the books. And Crowley would show him that _he, too, remembered_. He remembered how much the humans' books meant to Aziraphale. He remembered to keep them safe this time. He remembered the book burnings and this was as good as he would get to apologizing.

Sure enough, Aziraphale's face told him everything he needed to know. He was indeed forgiven, despite everything. Aziraphale wasn't angry at him any more, and they would be okay. Crowley felt a small rush. He was allowed to spend time with Aziraphale again. And they had so much to catch up on.

First things first, Crowley needed to show Aziraphale his automobile: a brand-new, black Bentley.

"Lift home?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gratuitous 'church scene' chapter!
> 
> I know the chapters are short, but if you like them regardless, please leave some kudos! :D


	6. Abstinence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deborah is a young adult in the 60's who enjoys partaking in drugs with her friends. One afternoon, she gets more than she bargained for when a stranger appears and offers them all a new drug called 'LSD'.  
The only chapter told from an OC's point of view.

1968 AD

It was well past 3 o'clock in the afternoon, and Deborah was already feeling hazy from the weed they had been passing. She never needed a lot to have a good time, and she honestly would rather just spend time with her friends, whiling away the last of her teenage years in a haze of happiness and bliss. The world was toxic and she just wanted to escape.

Her friends made it so easy to do so.

Deborah hummed quietly, rocking side to side as she felt the drug pleasantly warming her from the inside out. One of her friends passed her another spliff they had apparently started, but she took it and passed it to Linda without taking another hit. She was content right there, surrounded by others who were experiencing the same things she was.

Linda took a long draw from it and coughed lightly before passing it as well. Deborah closed her eyes and sniffed at the lingering smoke, enjoying the taste on the back of her throat.

She felt a weight on her shoulder and glanced to the side to see Linda leaning against her, looking up at her with glassy, slightly-reddened eyes. "Deb, please?" Deborah rolled her eyes with a smile and beckoned Linda to sit in her lap. Linda eagerly plopped down, going boneless against Deborah's chest. Deborah smiled and began running her fingers through the tangles in her hair while Linda grinned in contentment.

Yes, this was perfect.

Deborah's mind skipped, and she wasn't sure if she had fallen asleep or passed out or what, but the next thing she knew, there was some red-headed guy—a new friend she hadn't met yet—who brought his own marijuana to share. Deborah heard everyone make a happy grunt, and she felt her throat copy them without meaning to. Usually people just came to their little group of friends to mooch off their generosity and their drugs. Usually she and her friends didn't mind, but when someone came with their own, it was always a nice change.

The new man was easily welcomed to be a friend after that, and Deborah settled back, plucking dandelion flowers from a patch next to her and weaving the stems through Linda's knotted braids.

Time skipped once more, and suddenly her new redhead friend was talking. Saying something about a new drug. Deborah frowned. She was happy here, she didn't want any more. But Linda perked up, calling out, "Show it here," to which a couple other friends nodded in agreement.

The new friend passed out a few small pieces of paper-looking tablets, explaining something about acid. Deborah really didn't care, so she took the piece he offered since she didn't want to be rude, and put it aside.

"You put it on your tongue," the friend explained, demonstrating. The others quickly followed while Deborah sat back and watched.

Within the next couple minutes—it could have been longer, but Deborah really wasn't keeping track—everything started to change. The atmosphere grew tense and everyone began to lose themselves in their hallucinations. It was no longer a family of friends having fun, but a group of junkies who were tripping rather intensely.

At one point, Linda pushed away from Deborah, stumbing aside and digging through the grass, mumbling something about worms. Another friend—Deborah was sure his name was David—simply collapsed with a huge smile on his face, half-smoked blunt held between his fingers, as he stared up at the clouds. Deborah began to feel left out, but she refused to take the tab resting in the grass next to her. She was happy, she didn't need it.

She _didn't_.

The fact that everyone was becoming very incapable of even standing also started to worry Deborah, and she began to feel a sense of responsibility for her friends. She pushed her body up and crawled on all fours to David to make sure he was alright. She was going to check on Linda as well, when the new, redhreaded friend suddenly collapsed against her, bracing himself on her upper back as though he were trying to remain standing. He didn't even seem aware that he was leaning against her.

She winced in sympathy and turned, taking his hands and guiding him to sit down. He swayed dangerously and his round shades fell off at some point, revealing unfocused and glassy, dilated eyes. So she pulled him back against her chest, running her fingers through his hair like she was doing for Linda, knowing how soothing it could be. After all, it seemed like he was tripping rather intensely, if his blown pupils were anything to go by. His eyes were a shocking yellow color, contrasted by the thick, red veins streaking through them.

Maybe he wasn't having a good trip, after all?

"Are you alright?" She asked gently, leaning down so he could hear her.

His eyes roved, unseeing, as he tried to figure out where the voice had come from. She waited patiently. "Hng-" was all she got after a couple minutes.

_Hungry?_ She wondered, and called out to a friend who wasn't completely out of his mind, "Martin, pass us the biscuits, yeah?"

Soon enough, her new friend was shakily snacking on a pack of biscuits, and when she passed him some water, he drank that too. Everything seemed to be going uphill, and she slid away from him, allowing him to instead lay back against her satchel like a pillow while she went to check on a few other friends who had gone motionless a while ago and weren't moving.

Whatever this 'acid' stuff was, it was potent. No one who had taken it could respond to her at all. Only she and Martin had decided to pass, and the two of them took it upon themselves to make sure their friends would be okay.

Deborah watched David sit up and flop his way toward the new friend. She was sure neither could really communicate, so it was a shock when David handed the new friend the joint, and the redhead actually took it and drew a hit from it before his eyes rolled back and he slumped abruptly against the satchel.

Not good. Not good! Deborah raced to him, stumbling over her own high, and pressed her fingers against the new friend's neck. His pulse was fast and weak against her fingertips, and she shooed David away from the redhead before laying him flat on his back so he could breathe. It seemed like a chore, his gaunt face screwed up in pain as he clawed at the ground, trying to inhale.

Deborah bit her lip and gently reached out, trying to soothe him. But as soon as her fingers touched his head, he jerked up and away, gagging weakly as he braced himself on his hands. He made a small hissing sound like he was trying to speak, but she couldn't understand him. He shook like a leaf, elbows locked as he tried to hold himself up on all fours. "It's alright," she said gently, not sure if he could understand her but speaking slowly and gently nonetheless. "You're alright." She placed a hand on his back, but it turned out to be a mistake when he yelped in pain and his elbows gave out, making him sink back to the ground.

"What's going on?" Martin asked, coming to kneel on his other side. Deborah's hands hovered over him nervously.

"I'm not sure," she said, feeling her heartbeat in her ears and wishing she were sober so she could think clearly. "I think he needs help."

Martin bent low and ran his hand up and down the new friend's back, trying to get his attention. "Hey, you're not doing too good, are you?" The new friend stiffened at the touch and made a small, strained noise in the back of his throat. "Do you need a doctor?"

The redhead grunted again, and his mouth fell open as he slurred something neither of them could make out. Deborah bit her lip harder and looked to Martin nervously. Their eyes met, and Martin's expression told her that they couldn't risk sending him to a hospital. Not like this. Then they all would get in trouble. Deborah groaned in frustration. She didn't know what to do.

If nothing else, she could at least make sure no one would bother him as he tried to clear his system of the drug. She settled closer to him, not touching him, and tried to speak gently.

But then she blinked.

And he was gone.

Deborah froze. She glanced around herself just for a moment, to see if her friend had somehow slid away from her. But he was nowhere to be seen. After realizing that he had simply disappeared, she glanced up at Martin, who met her terrified gaze with a shocked look of his own.

"What...?" She asked quietly, and Martin simply shook his head.

"This is some strong shit," was all he said before he turned away, going back to help some of their other friends.

They never mentioned that stranger again, and they never saw him either. Deborah was so sure it was real, but decades later, she looked back on the 60's as a wild trip where on one fateful afternoon, she hallucinated a red-haired man straight into and then out of existence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried so hard to make it work with Aziraphale instead, but I couldn't get it realistic enough for myself. So I created these OCs to tell the story for me, and it pretty much wrote itself after that, haha. Hope you liked!


	7. Kindness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale notices Crowley pulling away, and tries his best to make sure the demon knows he's loved.

2020 AD

Aziraphale tried so hard not to look at Crowley as he snoozed on his sofa, but he couldn't help it. The demon just looked so peaceful, mouth slightly ajar as he snored quietly. Aziraphale shook himself. No, stop staring. He still hadn't spoken to Crowley since he burst in and decided to make himself comfortable while Aziraphale tidied his shop.

He was on edge. Monica was to call any moment, and Aziraphale desperately didn't want to wake Crowley. They had been seeing less and less of each other, and it was hurting Aziraphale deep inside to know that Crowley always seemed to have plans with someone else. Of course he'd never guilt-trip the demon into spending time with him, but it was an ache he carried deep in his heart.

Then again, perhaps he was doing the same to Crowley? Always spending time with Monica, learning how to stop time and how to teleport both himself and someone else. He wanted everything to be perfect for when he proposed to Crowley. Maybe spending so much time with Monica was making Crowley stir-crazy, hence the sudden appearance and subsequent unconsciousness on his sofa.

Aziraphale gave him another long look. He missed spending time with Crowley. His brow furrowed as he made a decision. He would wait at least until tomorrow before meeting with Monica.

Speak of the human, the phone rang and Aziraphale quickly answered it, hoping it was just a customer he could shoo away. But it was Monica.

He knew he was late to his meeting with her, but she (ever-patient) never gave him grief.

_"Hello Mr. Fell!"_ She chirped, _"Are you free to chat about the venue? I looked into both the Ritz and St. James' Park since those are two of your favorites, and I wanted to discuss which you'd prefer for the wedding."_

Aziraphale bit his lip. "Ah, no my dear, I'd love to chat with you, but," Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably and stole a quick glance at the sofa, where Crowley continued to snooze, "there's a...bit of a hindrance at the moment, and..."

_"No worries, no worries. Your man must be there with you,"_ Monica interrupted with a teasing smile in her voice. _"We can plan for another time."_

"Ah, thank you for understanding. Are we still on for tomorrow night? I can be there around seven, if you like. We can chat then."

_"Of course, meet you tomorrow at seven. Have fun with your soon-to-be fiancé!"_

Aziraphale grinned to himself. He couldn't help it. "Perfect, thank you my dear! I shall see you then."

As soon as he hung up, Crowley stirred. Terrified that the demon had heard the last part, and the proposal was no longer a surprise, Aziraphale hurried to his side. "You're awake! I was wondering when–"

"Stuff to do. Places to be. See you around, Angel."

Aziraphale watched in shock as Crowley shoved himself past him and out the door, bell chiming happily despite the somber mood Aziraphale suddenly found himself in.

Crowley clearly didn't hear Aziraphale's conversation with Monica, or else he wouldn't have reacted in such a way. However, he only decided he wanted to leave—rather abruptly, Aziraphale might add—after the phone call was over.

Perhaps he didn't want Aziraphale to propose? He wouldn't hold it past him. Crowley had trouble staying tied down for long. Always changing his appearance, his hair, his accent on a few occasions. Maybe marriage was too large of a commitment?

Aziraphale felt sick. Suddenly he wasn't sure if proposing was even a good idea.

He brought it up with Monica, but she insisted to give Crowley space to think about it. If he did hear the phone call, it would give him time to process before Aziraphale actually popped the question.

So he gave Crowley space.

He only lasted a week before his yearning couldn't take it anymore. He called Crowley's flat, expecting them to talk. But instead Crowley's voice came through the phone, _"Hey this is Anthony Crowley. You know what to do, do it with style,"_ followed by a mechanical beep. Aziraphale frowned.

"I know what to do? Wh-what do you mean, my dear?" There was silence on the other end. Aziraphale's anxiety increased and he began to babble. "I can't do something like this over the telephone, as I'm sure you're aware. I wanted to speak with you. In person. Er, face-to-face, anyway. We aren't technically 'people'…" still silence. Aziraphale's anxiety bubbled and spilled over into genuine fear. "Oh, say something Crowley? _Please?_" When a full minute of silence went by, Aziraphale felt his panic shift into hurt. "Fine, we don't have to talk. Good day." And he hung up, feeling wretched.

The rest of the week went on in a similar fashion. Aziraphale would talk with Monica, occasionally meeting up to discuss wedding plans and fine-tune Aziraphale's time-stopping abilities. Monica had taken the whole Aziraphale-is-an-angel and Crowley-is-a-demon thing very well, and was barely even shocked when she learned that Crowley could stop time and Aziraphale wanted to learn to do the same. She couldn't exactly coach him through it, but she could be moral support. And later, when she suggested he teleport himself and Crowley to various important locations, she became his guinea pig to practice with.

But every night, Aziraphale would call Crowley. Sometimes twice in one day. Always, Crowley said the same thing, the exact same way. _"Do it with style"_ was starting to ring in Aziraphale's ears. Yes, Crowley was a fan of flair, wasn't he? Aziraphale had to make sure the proposal went as smoothly as possible, with as much style as he could manage.

_"Do it with style,"_ Crowley's voice said.

Aziraphale sighed. "I understand if you don't want to say anything else, but can we at least talk in person Crowley? This is getting ridiculous, and if you'd just answ–"

_"What."_

Aziraphale blinked. That was new. And Crowley sounded irritated, rather than chipper like he always did when saying those taunting words. "C-Crowley?" He frowned. After a week of hearing him say the same things over and over, it was starting to get on Aziraphale's nerves. "Are you going to listen to me or are you going to keep saying the same things over and over?"

_"What do you want, Aziraphale?"_ Crowley snapped.

"Ah, w-well, see, I was feeling a bit lonely. Haven't been a lot of customers at the shop and I was hoping we could pick out some wine and just...relax? After all, I do miss your company," his voice faded off and there was silence on the other end that seemed to stretch. He scowled. Great, Crowley was giving him the silent treatment ag-

_"'m busy, Angel."_

"Oh! Right, alright then." He tried forcing himself to sound fine even though he was frustrated and hurt. "Maybe another time."

When he did finally manage to convince Crowley to a walk in the park a few days later, he came to the realization that Crowley was legitimately angry with him. He was well aware that Crowley was trying to sabotage the outing, and he tried so hard to make it right. At one point he even tried taking Crowley's arm, but the demon snatched it away and wouldn't look at Aziraphale for the rest of the walk.

"I don't know what to do," Aziraphale sobbed to Monica that night, wiping furiously at his eyes. "I thought we were doing alright, I thought he loved me back! Maybe I was mistaken…"

Monica handed him a tissue. "Hey, stop that. He's having a rough patch. It's not your fault."

"He's angry with me. I don't know why."

"Maybe he misses you? From the way you talk about how the two of you interacted before the so-called 'apocalypse'," (that was one thing Monica couldn't wrap her head around. She refused to believe the world had been about to end) "perhaps he misses that casual relationship? After all, it did last for centuries."

"Perhaps."

"I think he needs you more than ever. He may feel lost without directions from..._down there_. You're the only thing that could be the same as before." Monica reached out and patted Aziraphale's hands. "Go through with it. Sooner rather than later. He needs you."

Aziraphale took a deep breath. "What if he says no?"

"Then at least you know where you stand. But I don't think he will. You remember all the places you'll take him?"

"Yes," Aziraphale nodded, recounting in his head what he was going to say at each place. "Warlock's house, then Egypt, then the church, the Ritz, and finally I'll meet you at the bench in the park."

"Good. I think you should take tonight to calm yourself and make sure you're ready. Drink some tea, read a book. Just relax. I'll be at the park when you arrive. You have the ring, right?"

Aziraphale's hand drifted to his pocket, where a small, white box was tucked. He had picked out the ring a few weeks ago and Monica delivered it to him only a couple days prior. He nodded. "Promise you'll be at the park if everything goes awry?"

"I don't think it will. But yes, I'll be there."

"Thank you."

The next morning, Aziraphale decided to walk all the way to Crowley's flat, hoping it would take longer than it actually did. He hesitated outside the building, debating.

In his mind he could see Crowley, miserable and alone. Monica's words came back to him. That Crowley must need him. And if he was being truthful to himself, he needed Crowley as well. His own words from years ago echoed in his mind. _"You go too fast for me, Crowley."_ Not anymore. He couldn't take the distance he had sown anymore. He needed to be close to Crowley. He'd do anything to make it right. If Monica was correct, and Crowley was really missing him, then Aziraphale needed to fix it.

He made up his mind. He never wanted Crowley to feel that way again. Alone, probably scared, abandoned... _No,_ Aziraphale vowed, _I will stay by his side no matter what. He deserves all the kindness the world has to offer, and I will give it all to him._

With a single thought, he teleported himself directly into Crowley's bedroom. It was time to start the rest of their lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! Thanks everyone for reading, I hope you enjoyed!!
> 
> ~ ~ ~
> 
> I do have another story in the works. I found inspiration on N.Gaiman's twitter where someone asked him to confirm that Crowley didn't know why Noah needed 2 animals for the Ark, and he replied, "Note his unicorn statement" and inspiration struck hard and fast.
> 
> I'm thinking of doing a 5v1-type story exploring his oblivious nature when it comes to...mother nature, as it were :3  
<strike>For this upcoming story, I'm taking advice or requests, since I do have to have 5 times where something somewhat sexual was happening, and Crowley had no clue. So far, I have:</strike>  
<strike>1\. Adam and Eve in the Garden (after all, when they were kicked out, she was 'expecting already' so some hanky-panky must have happened), and</strike>  
<strike>2\. That moment for the Ark</strike>
> 
> <strike>...I have a few others in mind, but I'm not as crazy about them. One is where he watches a play about Oedipus, and doesn't know why the characters react so poorly when they find out he married his mom. But like I said, I'm not too crazy about it.</strike>
> 
> <strike>So I'm asking you guys! Any other sexual events for Crowley to be oblivious to? I'd love to hear them!</strike>
> 
> EDIT: The story is finished now! Go ahead and read it! [Five Times Crowley Was Sexually Oblivious, And One Time He Finally Learned](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22010902/chapters/52526257)


End file.
